Under The Maple Tree, Where The Silver Moths Dance

𝙐𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙚, 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙨 𝙙𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚,

𝙄 𝙡𝙖𝙮 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙥 𝙎𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙢𝙗𝙚𝙧 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙨,

𝙄 𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙮𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛, 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙖𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙝𝙪𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙙𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙬,

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙚 𝙛𝙡𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙡𝙤𝙬,

𝙃𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙧𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙗𝙪𝙨𝙝,

𝙈𝙪𝙢 𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙙, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙄 𝙙𝙞𝙙 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙣,

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙖𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙨𝙠𝙮,

𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙,

𝙄 𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙮 𝙄 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡 𝙧𝙪𝙢𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙙𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙝.

Jo wright

Soul and Sunrise